


Curls

by persephermione



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (but not explicitly), Bees, First Kiss, Fluff, Johnlock Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, POV John Watson, Post-Relationship, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Pre-Relationship, Requited Love, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sussex, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 17:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6385804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephermione/pseuds/persephermione
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every part of his potential flatmate is striking. And then he opens his mouth. And John is even more intrigued.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curls

**Author's Note:**

> This goes through when they first meet until they retire, all from John's perspective. I hope you enjoy it!

Every part of the stranger demands John’s attention. The shirt slightly straining its buttons, the pale skin, the hand paused mid-motion in the air, the bright eyes that seem to be looking straight through him with a single glance through the unruly hair. 

Every part of his potential flatmate is striking. And then he opens his mouth. And John is even more intrigued.

It’s no different at Angelo’s. In fact, his desire to touch the man is only increased upon seeing him in the candlelight. 

The man’s a genius too, of course, and John would happily spend hours upon hours just talking to him. But the way the light bounces off his hair and fragments in his eyes, offset by the pink hues of the restaurant just increases John’s desire to bury his hands in those curls and attack those lips.

Of course, then he says that he’s married to his work. And that pushes any possibilities off the table. Really, it’s only been a few hours since he first met the man. Surely the compulsion to touch will fade once they get more acquainted. The detective is fascinating and he wouldn’t want to risk a friendship with him by pushing it. And that’s fine. It’s all fine.

Until they get to the pool.

John’s done well with not thinking about anything other than friendship with the detective. He’s even had a girlfriend or two, not that they lasted long. Really, he thinks he’s done admirably.

And then a psychopath kidnaps him and straps a bomb to him.

And then his madman kneels down in front of him, his fringe brushing against one of John’s hands, and maybe it’s the adrenaline making him think more about the man in front of him than getting the bomb off of him. After all, only a lunatic would focus more on the fact that the beautiful genius was on his knees in front of him, pulling at John’s clothes, than getting explosives away from himself. 

John supposes that must make him a lunatic.

The pool incident passes and Moriarty has vanished, for now, and John doesn’t think about the chemist’s looks every day. He goes to work and he tries to help on cases and he blogs and sometimes he goes to the pub. But, the dark waves of hair make their way into his thoughts quite often. He has other favorites, like the cerulean eyes. Or his expressive hands. Or god that perfect bow of his lips. 

Still, it’s a recurring daydream of his, thinking about the different states of unruliness of his flatmate’s hair.

John theorizes that he’s so captivated just because it would be such a human gesture, running his hands through the detective’s hair and seeing the man nuzzling into the touch. It would be so different from the cold exterior. John knows that the detective isn’t really a sociopath, and he’s absolutely sure that given the chance and the affection the man would turn out to be a cuddler. 

John also theorizes that he’s so captivated because he’s fallen in love with him.

John still has vivid dreams about kissing the man, and the things that come after kissing, but he also longs for quiet domesticity, for hours of lying on the couch doing nothing but stroking the genius’s hair while the man organizes his mind palace. He imagines seeing lines from pillow creases marring those cheekbones when he wakes up, not-so-subtly groping that arse, ruffling his hair as he passes by on his way out to go to work. He wants to be able to show his love through touch, and he can’t help thinking about scenes like these because it would be so much more intimate to brush his hair out of his eyes than to 'accidentally' brush his fingers when handing him tea.

 

John’s seen blood in the madman’s hair before. He’s treated the idiot’s wounds after cases. He’s seen it wet after coming out of the shower and after jumping inadvisedly into the Thames for a case.

He has not seen it soaked with blood, smearing streaks of red across lifeless eyes. 

He doesn’t touch the crimson lines, doesn’t cradle the detective’s head. He only briefly, pointlessly checks for a pulse at his wrist before being pulled away.

 

The next time he sees the dead man, there’s no blood clotting in his hair. 

John notes that his curls are a little longer as he watches them hit the floor of the restaurant. 

For days, he thinks of the deep voice, of the unhappy eyes, of the way he walked as if he were in pain. He does not think of the intimacy that he used to attach to touching the liar’s hair, does not think of how it’s the same color as it was when they first met, years ago.

John tries not to remember being in love with Sherlock Holmes.

He fails.

Miserably. 

So miserably, in fact, that he even confesses to it.

This happens after Mary is gone, after John has returned to Baker Street, after he’s gotten sick of tiptoeing around his once-again-flatmate.

A few minutes after he fails miserably, he considers it as more of a victory.

His change in opinion is due to the fact that after a few minutes of tears and broken sentences from both parties, he is nipping at that bottom lip of the detective’s while threading his fingers through his hair and tugging. He starts to laugh as he realizes that he is still crying due to the tide of emotions inside of him, and pulls back to see that his detective is doing just the same. 

For the rest of his life, John has his domesticity of hair ruffling and lazy cuddling and knees knocking and morning sex and handholding and seeing his partner in various states of disarray. 

For the rest of his life, John will perfectly remember the sun glinting off of his husband’s hair the morning of their wedding. He will remember the tears in the silvery eyes, the hands which shook slightly as they slid a ring onto John’s left hand. He will remember how they kissed in front of their small audience, how there were more wrinkles on his own face than when they first met but that this husband’s face showed no sign of the past few years, eclipsed by happiness.

When they move boxes into the cottage in Sussex, John smiles fondly at the gray at his retired detective’s temples. His own hair has been lightening for a while, but most of the violinist’s hair is still inky black. But John likes the gray his husband is acquiring. He thinks it makes him look more attractive, if that were possible, especially when the man submits to wear the adorable glasses that he abhors. He shakes himself out of his thoughts and leans over a box to kiss the chemist’s cheek in response to a questioning look, then kisses him on the mouth as well, just because he can.

More time passes and John’s view is slightly blocked by the netted veil over his beekeeper’s head, but from his spot in his lawn chair he can still see the silvery color that the apiologist’s hair has taken on. John smiles fondly at the narrowed focus his husband has as he carefully checks on his bees, still excitedly working to study them and keep them happy even after years of doing so. John gives up all pretense of reading his book and instead watches his husband, thinking over their life together in shades of stormy eyes, crooked smiles, and dark locks that curl around his fingers.


End file.
